Witch-Doctors
_by_ Charles Beadle
_Author of “A Whiteman’s Burden”_
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
1922
_Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner, Frome and London_
CHARACTERS
LUCILLE CHARLTRAIN (Mrs. Gerald Birnier) A Photograph
USAKUMA (The Incarnation of the
Unmentionable One) An Idol
GERALD BIRNIER A Professor
ZU PFEIFFER (Hermann von Schnitzler und) German Kommandant
ZALU ZAKO (son of Kawa Kendi) Heir Apparent
BAKUMA (daughter of Bakala) in love with Zalu Zako
MYALU (son of MBusa) a chief in love with Bakuma
BAKAHENZIE (son of Maliko) Chief Witch-Doctor
MARUFA (son of MTungo) another Witch-Doctor
KAWA KENDI (son of MFunya MPopo) King-God and Rainmaker
MFUNYA MPOPO (son of MKoffo) Predecessor of Kawa Kendi
KINGATA MATA (son of Kabolo) Keeper of the Sacred Fires
SAKAMATA deposed Witch-Doctor and spy
YABOLO another Witch-Doctor
MUNGONGO Birnier’s servant
SCHULTZ German sergeant
LUDWIG German sergeant
SCHNEIDER German sergeant
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Extra Pages
Errata
WITCH-DOCTORS
CHAPTER 1
In a bayou in the south-eastern corner of the Victoria Nyanza was the
station of Ingonya, a brown scab on the face of the green earth. The round
mud huts of the askaris were like two columns of khaki troops marching
rigidly on each side of the parade ground. To the north, upon a slight
rise of ground, were the white men’s quarters; the non-commissioned
officers had four bungalows to the south of the orderly room and Court
House; and beyond a green plot flanked by a store house and an ordnance
building, was a bigger bungalow, florid in the amplitude and colour of the
red pillared verandah, the residence of the Kommandant, Herr
Ober-Lieutenant Hermann von Schnitzler und zu Pfeiffer.
On the northern side, overlooking the swamp and the distant lake, was a
flagpole, before which paced an ebon sentry in a uniform of white
knickers, tunic and lancer cap, red faced. The glow of sunrise stained the
green of the moon with crimson. A trumpet blared. From the rear of the
Residence marched with stiff-legged precision a squad of askaris and the
stocky figure of a non-commissioned officer in a white helmet.
Simultaneously appeared on the verandah of the large bungalow the tall
form of a white man in pink silk pyjamas. The sergeant barked. The squad
presented arms. A coloured ball slid up the flagpole. The first rays of
the sun splintered the bloodied waters beyond into silver spikes and
caressed a fluttering black, white and red flag.
Then the squad ported arms, relieved the sentry, and retired, their black
legs gleaming blue points as they rose and fell. The pink figure
disappeared. Sergeant Schultz strutted back to his bungalow, in the
verandah of which squatted a native girl clad in gay trade cloths. He
emerged lighting a cigar, and sjambok in hand, returned to the orderly
room. Another trumpet blared. From beyond the askaris’ camp came a line of
natives, young and old, their scrawny necks linked together by a light
iron chain which clanked musically. Filing on to the parade ground they
were divided into gangs by Sergeant Schneider to labour under guard at the
interminable work of the camp.
The air above the swamp began to sizzle in the heat. The same slender
figure clad in immaculate white reappeared upon the south verandah of the
florid bungalow. Herr Ober-Lieutenant stood staring about the small square
with a peevish glint in the fair eyes. A big negro in spotless white
hurried around the house bearing a brass tray set with a cup, a liqueur
glass and a decanter. Herr Lieutenant sprawled his legs on either arm of a
Bombay chair. As he delicately mixed cognac with his coffee, his jewelled
fingers sparkled in a shaft of sunlight which set afire the sapphires
mounted in an ivory bracelet.
At a yard from the table stood the servant as rigid as the flagpole. With
a lazy insolence which marked his movements, the lieutenant sipped the
café-cognac and smoked a cheroot, as if he were seated on the terrace of
the Café de la Paix. The brutality of the round skull, emphasized by the
cropped blonde hair, seemed at variance with the boyish rotundity of the
face and the small, but dominant, nose. Two separate moustaches bristled
so fiercely that they suggested sentries on guard over the feminine
softness of the lips. When he had finished zu Pfeiffer arose languidly,
lighted a fresh cigar, adjusted his helmet with care, took a gold-mounted
sjambok from his servant, and strode across the square. The lines of his
torso were so perfect that they suggested artificial aid.
The orderly room was square and whitewashed; grass matting was upon the
floor, and high screened doors opened on to the north verandah. Zu
Pfeiffer sprawled in a swing chair before the office desk placed at an
oblique angle to the wall, encumbered with books and papers. After tapping
reflectively on a book cover with a polished nail zu Pfeiffer’s hand
sharply struck the bell. Instantly a corporal appeared at the farther door
and stood as if petrified, black hand to black temple. Zu Pfeiffer snapped
instructions in Kiswahili without removing his cigar. The man grunted,
shot his hand away at right angles with as much energy as if he were
trying to knock down an elephant, and vanished.
“Sergeant!”
“Ja, Excellence.”
At the other door like another Jack-in-the-box appeared Sergeant Schultz
in exactly the same attitude. At a nod the sergeant melted into the
semblance of human movement: he drew aside a chair, selected a certain
document from a pile of them, and handed it to the lieutenant. Zu Pfeiffer
pushed a box of cigars across the table, lolled back with one foot on the
table, and began to peruse lazily. The sergeant retired respectfully with
the cigar to the outer office. A fly buzzed hopefully at the mosquito
wire. The tap of a typewriter sounded like some other insect. On the hot
air came the faint barks of a drill-sergeant on the parade ground. From
behind the building rose fitfully the murmur of voices from a herd of
natives squatted in the sun awaiting the opening of the Court House.
Leaves rustled largely under the Lieutenant’s fingers.…
At length he pitched the report on to the table, carefully placed the butt
of his cigar in an ash-tray, lighted another, and disposed of the match
with equal care.
“Sergeant.”
“Ja, Excellence!”
Zu Pfeiffer indicated a chair by a thrust of the chin. The sergeant sat.
Tapping the report with the highly polished and very long finger-nail of
the left hand, the lieutenant demanded:
“Who is the man who gave you this report?”
“Ali Ben Hassan, an Arab trader, Excellence.”
“Trustworthy?”
“Ja, Excellence. He has done much work for us.”
“Where?”
“On the Tanganika district, sub-division B II, Excellence. He brought
papers of first-class recommendation from the Kommandant.”
“Ben Hassan speaks of one Sakamata, nicht wahr?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“Of what tribe is he?”
“Wongolo.”
“A witch-doctor?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
“He is here? Let him come in.”
The sergeant rose, saluted and departed. Gutturals sounded lazily. The
sergeant reappeared and behind him shuffled a native. Clad only in a dirty
loin-cloth, his brown skin was wrinkled in scaly folds upon his chest and
belly; his face was like an ancient tortoise; the small lack-lustre eyes
were bloodshot and furtive; the limbs were almost fleshless. He squatted
upon the ground and with lowered lids appeared to be absorbed in the
contemplation of a white man’s table leg. Zu Pfeiffer regarded the man as
one would a stray dog and nodded to the sergeant, who sat down.
“Does he speak Kiswahili?”
“Nein, Excellence. Only his monkey speech.”
“Why do you suppose that he is trustworthy?”
“Because, Excellence, his interests are with ours. There is no
competition. The Schweinhünde Engländer have no interest there—yet. They
are too busy with the Uganda railroad.”
“Ja, ja. Again what is the tribal system there, King-God or——” The
lieutenant permitted a slight smile—“or Dis-established Church?”
“King-God, Excellence,” replied Sergeant Schultz gravely.
“This fellow then is an apostate priest, nicht wahr?”
The sergeant noticed the movement of one of the sentry moustaches. A
twitch of the lips recognized his superior’s pleasantry.
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and regarded idly
the dumb figure on the floor against the wall.
“We must have the Wongolo country, c’est entendu. Now what’s your opinion
of the method, sergeant?”
“With due deference, Excellence,” responded Sergeant Schultz, “I propose
that we advance and bring them to subjection in the usual manner.”
Zu Pfeiffer fingered a ring and stared out into the yellow glare.
“Nein,” he said at length, meditatively, removed the cigar from his lips
and delicately knocked off the ash. “Circumstances alter cases. That
method is too expensive. Son Altesse cannot afford the blood of the
Fatherland in return for such ignoble carcasses. We—the price paid in the
Herrero campaign was insupportable.”
“Pardon, Excellence, but Treitschke said——”
“I know, sergeant. But Treitschke did not live in Central Africa.”
“True, Excellence.”
“Die Schweinhünde Engländer have had more experience than we have. Even a
fool learns wisdom by experience—sometimes.”
“True, Excellence.”
Again fell a silence save for the buzz of the persistent fly.
“Also psychological research is more valuable than artillery—sometimes—in
spite of Napoleon and Treitschke.” Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the sergeant
who, beneath the mask of his features, appeared shocked. “Blasphemy, nicht
wahr, sergeant?”
“If your Excellence thinks——”
“But remember if Napoleon invented the science of artillery, we invented
psychology.”
“True, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smiled complacently and stroked his moustaches.
“Now for this animal here. Who and what was he?”
“One of the principal witch-doctors, Excellence, wealthy and powerful. He
attempted to overthrow the Chief Witch-doctor, one Bakahenzie, and was
discredited.”
“How discredited?”
“He attempted some form of magic, Excellence, which failed. Details are
not given.”
“Who gave the dossier?”
“Ali ben Hassan, Excellence.”
“From whom did he get his information?”
“Name given as one Yabolo, another witch-doctor and relative.”
“This Saka—Saka”—zu Pfeiffer glanced at the document—“Sakamata. Is he in
communication with this Yabolo?”
“Ja, Excellence.”
Zu Pfeiffer smoked reflectively.
“When did the last agent come in?”
“But yesterday, Excellence.”
“And no report of any other white men in the country? No British
missionaries or traders?”
“Nein, Excellence.”
“Where is Saunders?”
“On Lake Kivu.”
“No report?”
“Not since the last three months ago, Excellence.”
“Umph!—Now, pay attention.” Schultz leaned forward dutifully. Zu Pfeiffer
unrolled a map on the wall beside him. “Here’s Ingonya. The Wongolo
country is twenty days’ march from here, but across the lake it’s twenty
hours with the launch, and five days from there.” The delicate finger-nail
indicated a spot on the opposite side of the lake. “From here—what’s the
place? Ach—Timballa. To hell with the British boundary! We must not give
them time to get the news. Always rush the seat of government. Surprise
them and they’re done.”
“But, Excellence, Treitschke says regarding retreat——”
“There will be no retreat. At MFunya MPopo’s is the idol, the fetish. We
destroy it and they’re done!” He brought down his fist with a crash on the
table. “Faith unites a people; in unity is strength. Break the faith and
you’ve broken the people.”
“But, Excellence!” exclaimed the Lutheran sergeant, aghast.
Zu Pfeiffer’s blue eyes hardened.
“Understand, you fool, these are savages. _You_ have an abstract
deity—which you cannot break in the concrete—obviously: they have a
concrete god which we can and shall smash.”
“Excellence, you are right,” said the sergeant humbly.
Zu Pfeiffer flicked cigar ash from his sleeve and lolled back.
“Those are your orders. Commandeer the necessary canoes and notify Ludwig
to have the men in readiness for the full moon. Work out the details and
give them to me to-morrow.”
“Ja, Excellence.” Schultz stood to attention. “But, Excellence, this
creature——”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced casually at Sakamata.
“Oh, that? Take it away!”
Schultz saluted smartly and wheeled about.
“Njoo!” he commanded sharply.
Sakamata rose up quietly and disappeared through the door without glancing
to the right or the left.
“The Court awaits your Excellence,” reminded the sergeant.
As zu Pfeiffer nodded languidly, a booted foot clopped on the verandah.
“Wa da?” queried Sergeant Schultz, startled at the intrusion of a
stranger.
“Oh, only I,” responded a soft voice in English.
Through the screen door a tall figure in a Tirai hat was silhouetted in
sepia against the yellow glare. A brown hand pushed open the door.
“Mon nom est Birnier, Gerald Birnier—er—Does any one speak English?”
Zu Pfeiffer, in the act of rising, sank back into the chair, placing his
left leg in a favourite position and selecting a cigar simultaneously.
“Yes,” said he, almost without accent. “What do you want?”
“I wish to see the—the Herr Kommandant.”
Zu Pfeiffer struck a match without looking up.
“I am he.”
One hand upon the open door, Birnier stroked his shaven chin perplexedly
with the other. He glanced from the sergeant, standing rigidly by the
table, to the lieutenant engaged in stoking his cigar to a nicety.
“Well, it’s usual to invite a white man to sit down, isn’t it?” suggested
Birnier, with a note of irritation.
Zu Pfeiffer looked across the table.
“Nein. This is the Orderly Room; not a general office.”
“Oh, I see. I beg your pardon!” There was a note of laughter in the voice.
“Will you kindly instruct me where I am to apply?”
Zu Pfeiffer continued to regard the stranger from head to foot, smoking
slowly.
“Please to come in,” he said at length, gesturing with his cigar, “and sit
down.”
“Thanks so much!”
The trace of irony seemed to escape zu Pfeiffer. He gave a guttural order
to the sergeant, who saluted and disappeared. The stranger placed his
Tirai hat on the table, revealing rumpled brown hair flecked with grey, a
high white forehead, and long features; the slight stoop of the shoulders
and general carriage rather suggested a professional type than a hunter or
trader. He regarded the slim figure staring insolently at him with a
hardening look of disapproval.
“What is it you wish?”
“Well, principally I require an elephant licence and the usual permit to
trade.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Kivu country.”
Zu Pfeiffer regarded his cigar tip interestedly.
“You are going to the Wongolo country,” he stated.
Birnier’s mouth tightened.
“Quite possibly.”
“You have been to the Wongolo country already?”
“Yes, I have been there, but what has that to do with it?”
“We know all about you,” stated zu Pfeiffer coldly, twiddling his cigar
between slender fingers. He glanced at a gold repeater. “Pardon, but I
must request you to return later. The Court is already awaiting me.”
Birnier frowned slightly. “If you will be so good as to return at, let us
say, five o’clock, I will be pleased to listen to your application.”
Birnier rose, taking his hat.
“Certainly,” he said curtly. “Good morning!”
Zu Pfeiffer watched him depart; then he struck the bell sharply. Sergeant
Schultz appeared, a line of nervous expectancy upon his sallow face.
“Why have you not reported that man’s arrival?” demanded zu Pfeiffer
harshly.
“Excellence,” returned Schultz, saluting, “he has but arrived within the
hour in a launch, loaned to him by the Engländer.”
“Ach! An English spy!”
“I do not know, Excellence.”
“We ought to know. Why have you not a report of the man’s movements? He
admits that he has been in the Wongolo country.”
“Excellence, it is already done.” Schultz hurriedly searched a card index
cabinet and handed a document to the lieutenant. “There is Saunders’
report, Excellence; more than six months old.”
Zu Pfeiffer glanced at the page indicated and began to read while the
sergeant stood stiffly at attention.
“You may go, sergeant,” announced zu Pfeiffer without looking up. Schultz
saluted and departed. Zu Pfeiffer finished the report leisurely, put down
the paper, and stared meditatively.
No, he decided, as he rose, all the English are spies.